Page 10

10

With every passing second, I wonder if I’ve made the wrong choice.

The back of the temple opens to a terrace garden of white stone: Clear Skies Pavilion, announces a marble sign. Wisteria in soft hues of purple, blue, and pink whisper gently in the breeze; magnolia trees line the path to a rounded moongate in the wall to the right. Candidates’ Courtyard, reads the plaque above the circular opening. To the left is another moongate that leads to a river reflecting the rosy skies like the finest blown glass; directly ahead, the veranda appears to end in a stirring sea of clouds.

I turn and follow the path into the Candidates’ Courtyard.

Beyond the moongate are the dormitories. Joined into one long structure that wraps around a courtyard, they are accented with gray-tiled roofs and rosewood and pale walls, perhaps to mimic the style of the mortal realm. Night has fallen, but a series of lanterns light the long, open-air veranda that winds outside our chambers. At the center of the courtyard is a curving pond, flecked with lotuses and the glow of fireflies. Willows dip their branches into the water, and orchids and flowering plum trees lean over to gaze at their reflections.

For a moment, I stand taking this all in: the cool breeze on my face, the lantern light hitting the water at angles that make me think of the glittering threads Mā used to sew with. I think I catch the flash of a carp tail and the shimmer of scales as it darts beneath the surface.

There is a peace here that I haven’t known in nine years.

I make my way down the veranda. Elegant rosewood doors are marked with numbers; mine, the forty-fourth, is at the very end.

I slide open the doors and step inside. It takes me a moment to believe what I’m seeing.

Smooth wood floors polished to a gleam, warmed by the lambent light of lanterns. A bed wider than I could ever have imagined, laid with silks as soft as dreams. Gauze drapes fluttering gently before a balcony that overlooks the sea of clouds, silvered in the moonlight. And beyond, the shapes of mountains and rivers and oceans adrift amidst curls of mist. My chambers are larger than our cottage in Xī’lín.

Was this truly where my father trained for years? And why…why did he leave this place to return to the mortal realm? He wasn’t married to Mā at that point, and he had been raised an orphan with no ties drawing him back to the Kingdom of Rivers.

I peel off my muddied dress and place it by the side of the bathtub, along with my crescent blades. Plumes of steam rise from the water, and I exhale as I sink in and stretch out, my head resting against the curved back. Flower petals drift in the water, their fragrance soothing me. I wish to curl up here and sleep for a hundred years. For the first time in a long time, I am free of the gnawing dread and bone-deep fear that come with survival.

It feels so good, I could weep.

But Mā and Méi’zi are not here. They are a realm away, trapped by that ever-present fear of mó, of death, of agony. The memory of Méi’zi standing at our village gates, hugging my dagger to her chest, sears my heart.

My eyes fly open.

Floating in the water between petals of eastern rose and osmanthus is my jade pendant. I lift it, studying the way it catches the light of the lanterns, the green stone cloudy and veined, the broken edge jagged but not sharp enough to cut. I know every detail of this pendant by heart. If I close my eyes, I can conjure the precise style of calligraphy that appears in golden strokes within the jade. I know the way my guardian speaks, formal and direct and…warm.

My guardian has watched over me for nine years and led me here, to the Temple of Dawn. “I’m here,” I murmur. I squeeze the pendant, watching a drop of water trickle down its smooth surface. “Thank you.”

Of course, the stone remains stubbornly blank.

I retrieve my handkerchief from the bodice of my dress, unfolding the note within. My father was clever enough to cast a talisman over the parchment to protect it from the elements: the note is as smooth and pristine as the day I found it, the ink unmarred by water, mud, or blood.

I read the note as I have done every night since discovering it, the characters ingrained in my mind. “?‘The truth to everything,’?” I whisper. “?‘Find the One of the Vast Sea.’?”

I’ve arrived in the Kingdom of Sky, where my father’s secrets have led me to more questions than answers.

I scrub myself with the various scented powders by the edge of the tub, then towel off. My dress is torn and dirty and still wet with ocean water; I’ll have to clean it and mend it if I can find a sewing kit. For tonight, I’ll need to make do with something else.

From an elegant cabinet filled with outfits in shimmering silks and samites, I choose a deep-blue dress, admiring how the fabric ripples with iridescence in a way that no mortal can weave, and how it slides through my fingers like water. It fits perfectly, slipping over my shoulders to hug the shape of my body. My favorite piece, however, is the pair of new black leather boots in the bottom drawer.

This dress isn’t made to fit my blades, so I improvise, selecting four: I strap one to each wrist and one in each boot, fixing my sleeves to ensure they’re concealed. I’m twining my hair into a tight braid with my white ribbon when a gong sounds to announce the beginning of the Trial Banquet.

Forty-four candidates. This time, I’m rested, strong, and ready to study my competition.

When I slide open my doors, candidates are already making their way down the courtyard. I follow, fingers tapping against the crescent blades within my sleeves, as I instinctively search the crowd for Yù’chén.

When we file through the moongate to the terrace, I hear gasps.

At the front of the terrace, a marble bridge has appeared over the clouds. The moon hangs at the other end, full and larger than I have ever seen it, as if I could climb onto the bridge railing and press my finger to its surface. The candidates exclaim in delight at the engravings on the bridge: dragons and phoenixes, sun and stars, lotuses and irises that seem to undulate as we cross.

We arrive at a garden bathed in the moon’s glow. Illuminated by softly pulsing lights that resemble bottled stars are arrays of white osmanthus, anise magnolias, blush hibiscus, and more, their fragrances twining between jade tables heaped with steaming trays of food. Here and there, pavilions rest along winding streams, situated for gazing into the forest beyond.

“The Celestial Gardens!” I hear one of the candidates exclaim, the inflection to her speech marking her as from the Western Province. “I’ve read about them in our town library books. They’re more beautiful than I imagined.”

I make for an empty table behind a tight-knit group of people. That’s when I feel someone watching me.

I look up.

Yán’lù’s face is twisted in a sneer, his eyes narrowed as they follow me through the shifting crowd. I didn’t catch sight of him back at the Hall of Radiant Sun, and he wouldn’t have dared to try anything there under the eyes of the immortals…but now, in these gardens, there are too many ways he could kill me and make it look like an accident.

I look away from him, determined not to let him cow me. I sense his gaze trailing me; his cronies, too, have stopped talking and watch me hungrily. I slide my blades into my palms as, out of the corners of my eyes, I see Yán’lù turn and break away from the group, making straight for me—

“Hi!”

A girl cuts into my path. It takes me a moment to place the face, the wide-set eyes and delicate lips now curved in a wide, toothy grin, the two buns atop her head. Something in her amber gaze clicks into place.

It’s the fox spirit halfling. I remember her eyes watching me from behind the tree on the mountain, her silent warning as one of Yán’lù’s cronies attacked me.

“I’m Lì’líng,” she says brightly.

I almost recoil, all my preconceptions of yāo’jīng filtering through my mind—but above it all, I recall the announcer’s voice, mingling now with Yù’chén’s: By measure of your mortal blood and mortal hearts.

Whether or not she is a halfling, the immortals’ wards admitted her into this realm and into these trials.

“àn’yīng,” I mumble. It’s been a while since I’ve exchanged niceties not at blade point.

“I know! We all saw your entrance earlier.” Her eyes warm, and there’s a knowing glint to them as she adds, “Thanks for looking out for me. You must be hungry!”

I catch Yán’lù watching me through the crowd as Lì’líng pulls me in the opposite direction. I half listen to her chatting, but my muscles are tensed, my fingers brushing the hilts of the blades concealed in my sleeves.

Lì’líng keeps up a steady, nearly pleasant stream of conversation that is less a conversation than her exclamations over the delicacies on the platters we pass by: “…honeyed dates, osmanthus rice cakes…and ooh! Lotus-wrapped glutinous rice with chicken !” She pauses and waves at the two people standing beneath a great magnolia tree. “Look! I brought us a new friend.”

“Was this friend forced to listen to you talk about glutinous rice balls?” asks the tall girl. Her arms are folded, and she’s dressed in an all-black hàn’fú in thick brocade, a material commonly used in the north. Her skin is as pale as death, and there are deep shadows beneath her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept. She looks supremely bored.

“It’s not glutinous rice balls, Tán’mù, it’s lotus-wrapped glutinous rice,” sniffs Lì’líng. “How can you aspire to be a rice connoisseur without being able to distinguish between these?”

Tán’mù gives her a flat look. “I don’t aspire to be a rice connoisseur—”

“Same difference,” says their other companion. “All edible.” He tosses a lotus-wrapped glutinous rice up in the air and opens his mouth wider than humanly possible—then swallows it whole, leaves and all. His tongue darts out, unnervingly long, as he licks the juices from his chin. There is something so familiar about his jewel-green eyes framed by arched brows and the shock of white hair that spills to his shoulders.

“You!” I exclaim. The last time I saw him, he was green and covered in scales, climbing the cliffs at Heavens’ Gates. Now he looks mostly human but for his white hair and green eyes. It’s the shapeshifter yāo’jīng.

He shoots me a grin with too many rows of white teeth before unclamping them to shove a whole peach inside.

“That’s Fán’xuān,” Lì’líng chirps. “He’s like our deranged little brother.”

“You’re the deranged one,” Fán’xuān bites back over his chewing, “if you think red beans are the best stuffing for glutinous rice.”

Lì’líng fires up. “Red beans and salted egg yolk, you fish-brained turtle—”

They get into it then, Fán’xuān arguing for pork-and-mushroom stuffing.

I realize I’m staring and quickly look away. Tán’mù, however, watches me like a hawk. The look on her face is less than friendly. “Where’s your lover?” she asks.

It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about Yù’chén. “He’s not my lover.”

She shrugs and turns her attention to a platter of shredded pheasant wrapped in milk skin. Her left wrist flashes, and I catch the number fifteen on it. A two-pronged spear is strapped to her back. I wonder if she’s one of the candidates who received training at a mortal practitioning school before coming here. I know those still exist, and some have managed to escape the Kingdom of Night’s invasion—for now.

“I’m only asking because he’s Number Two,” she says as she chews. “The higher numbers are usually targeted first.”

I wonder if my Number Forty-Four has a silver lining after all. “Who’s Number One?” I ask.

“She’s over there,” Lì’líng chimes in, appearing to have won the argument with Fán’xuān. She flicks her gaze to a table toward the center of the terrace, where a tall, sturdily built girl is holding court. She is muscular, her rich yellow shift complementing her tanned skin and suggesting Western Province origins. I’ve heard that in the Golden Desert, where the sun blazes bright and mó are least likely to wander, mortal practitioning schools thrive between the sand dunes, training powerful practitioners who patrol the desert to guard against the Kingdom of Night. “Her name is Xiù’chūn.”

“I saw her get through the First Trial,” Fán’xuān offers between bites of braised chicken. “It looked like a game to her.” His golden bracelet flashes, and I take note of his ranking: twenty-four. Interesting, since he clearly scaled that mountain before Yù’chén and me, but I get the feeling he somehow doesn’t care.

I try to catch Lì’líng’s number, but her wrist is turned away from me as she peels another lotus-wrapped glutinous rice and bites off half. “Mm,” she sighs. “Dates.”

I’m suddenly starving. I pile food onto a plate and eat, the flavors melting against my tongue, richer and better than anything I’ve tasted before in my life. There’s duck stewed with wine and cauliflower, steamed lotus root with shrimp, spiced mutton, pork in thick soy gravy…I don’t think I’ve seen this much food in over nine years. Or, ever.

Suddenly, I feel disgusted. Here I am, stuffing my face and enjoying the luxuries, when Mā and Méi’zi are sharing a meager meal. I think of our watery congee, boiled with the rabbit I hunt and the black fungus I harvest.

I set my platter down a bit too hard. “Excuse me,” I begin, but that’s when a hush goes through the crowd of candidates.

The Eight Immortals are here. They glide more than walk across the bridge, their sleeves and gauzes billowing, their skin seeming to soak in the moonlight so that they glow with it. Behind them, dressed in simpler white shifts and armor, are the immortal guards.

The candidates straighten as the immortals cross the bridge and come to a stop on the terrace. Immediately, I spot the one who vouched for me, Shī’yǎ. Interestingly, she is flanked by a guard—the only one of the Eight Immortals to have an escort.

When my gaze slides to the guard’s face, I nearly forget to breathe.

His face. I recognize it—slim and chiseled with those long, sweeping eyes, a countenance that reminds me of clear river water and sunlight. He wears the white-gold lamellar armor of the immortal realm’s soldiers, and his hair is pinned up, but there is no doubt about it.

He is the stranger whose face I dreamt beneath the sea.

“Candidates!” Jǐng’xiù’s voice booms across the garden, tearing me from my thoughts. “I hope you are enjoying our Trial Banquet!” There’s enthusiastic cheering and clapping. Full bellies mean loyalty. “Over the next days, the Temple of Dawn is yours to explore. We have sparring rooms, weapons, talismans, and everything else you’ll need to train yourselves. While the wards have admitted you into the temple, you will not have access to the Kingdom of Sky beyond these grounds.” A disappointed murmur rises among the candidates, and Jǐng’xiù’s grin widens as he spreads his arms. “For that, you’ll have to wait until you’ve passed all the trials and received our nomination for immortality.”

Every nerve in me stretches taut as I recall the golden pill Jǐng’xiù held up earlier, as bright as a small star in his palm. The key to a better life for most of us, to safety and security and glory.

For me, the medicine to save my mother’s life.

The atmosphere is suddenly tense, as though the same thought is on every one of the forty-four candidates’ minds.

“The Temple of Dawn observes a number of rules per our Precepts, copies of which you’ll find in each of your chambers,” Jǐng’xiù continues. “So long as you observe our Precepts, you are free to spend your time in the temple as you wish until the Second Trial. Enjoy your stay!” With a flourish of his sleeves, he turns to leave with the other immortals.

“Hold on,” calls a candidate. It’s Number One, Xiù’chūn. Her voice is steady, without an ounce of fear or timidness to be addressing the Eight Immortals directly. “Are you going to tell us more about the Second Trial?”

Jǐng’xiù glances over his shoulder. “And why would I? It wouldn’t be a trial anymore, would it?”

“We’ll at least receive notice of when it starts, right?” Xiù’chūn presses.

Jǐng’xiù’s smile is cold. “Oh, you’ll know when it begins” is all he says. Wisps of cloud are forming at the Eight Immortals’ feet, lifting them into the air. Before any of us can do anything, they drift into the night sky like stars, and then they’re gone.

“Wait.” I start to feel as if there’s something I’m missing. “He didn’t tell us about classes or who’s going to be training us.”

Lì’líng bites her lip. “There are no classes,” she says. “I think there used to be—at least, that’s what we heard in the—” She’s cut off when Tán’mù shoots her a look, and quickly changes tack: “But in recent years, we’ve heard rumors they’re no longer training practitioners since the last few years of the war. Just recruiting the best of us into their kingdom.”

My mind reels. This isn’t what I read in Bà’s journals. I remember his entries about long, detailed courses teaching martial arts, talismans and enchantments, and the techniques to cultivating our spirit energy. He studied at the Temple of Dawn as a candidate for years before going through the trials.

No classes. No training. And a Second Trial that might start at any moment.

I’m so screwed.

I turn, ignoring Lì’líng as she calls after me, because I can’t respond, not when it feels like my world and the hope I clung to for so long is falling apart. If I nearly died trying to reach this place, I have zero chance of surviving the next trials against the likes of Yù’chén and Yán’lù. Zero chance of earning a spot and winning the pill my mother’s life depends on.

I hurry back across the marble bridge, the silver luminescence reflecting from its too-beautiful engravings now hurting my eyes. I need to get to my room, need to get a letter out to Méi’zi, think through my options.

I don’t notice the shadow behind me until it’s too late.

My blades are in my hands, but as I raise them to strike, the air shifts. I taste spirit energy, see it shimmer as the talisman my assailant has drawn takes effect.

Clouds billow in and swallow the bridge so that the night turns into an expanse of shifting gray silhouettes.

A shape lunges out of the fog. Before I can scream, fingers wrap around my neck in a choke hold, and a voice hisses by my ear.

“Did you think I’d forgotten about you?”

I’d recognize Yán’lù’s twisted snarl anywhere.

I lash out, but he’s locked both of my wrists in his grip. The courtyard is empty and dark, moonlight pooling around pockets of shadows. I can hear sounds of laughter and conversation from the banquet drifting toward us beyond the unnatural fog Yán’lù has cast.

“You should’ve died back at the Immortals’ Steps when I pushed you into the sea. But someone’s been helping you all along, eh?” Yán’lù inhales deep, like he’s scenting me. “Who is it?”

Black spots erupt in my vision as his hand squeezes tighter over my throat. He’s not only trying to kill me; he’s turning it into a sport. And he’s having fun.

“I want to know who it is,” he whispers. “And until I find out, I’m going to enjoy hunting you down. I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer. ” His laugh is low. “What are you going to do now, my little flower? There’s no one here to help you.”

“There is someone here,” comes a voice, masculine and pleasant, though tinged with frost.

The pressure on my throat loosens; as I lurch away, Yán’lù shoves me, hard. The world swings off balance, and a crack of pain streaks up my wrists as I slam against the marble floor of the bridge.

I clench my teeth and look up. My vision’s blurred, but between the distant lights and the white osmanthus trees at the end of the Celestial Gardens, a figure has emerged, approaching with sharp, steady footfalls.

Clack. Clack. Clack. With each step, tremors of spirit energy roll through the marble bridge.

“We were just having a friendly chat,” I hear Yán’lù reply. “Isn’t that right, my flower?”

I grit my teeth against the pain in my wrists. “That’s right,” I say. My voice shakes, but I swallow and try again. “We’re fine.”

I blink the haze from my eyes. In the moonlight, between the softly shifting flower trees of the gardens in the distance, stands a tall, pale-robed silhouette. He’s broad-shouldered, dressed in white silks, his lamellar glinting like gold scales.

Not a candidate—a guard. Through the fog, I can’t make out any of his features except for the jut of his chin, the cold, stern line of his mouth. There is a silent air of power to him, like the deep undercurrent of a flowing river.

The guard addresses Yán’lù, ignoring me. “The Temple of Dawn’s Precepts state there is to be no slaughter on temple grounds—”

“—outside of the trials,” Yán’lù sneers. I’m shocked at his audacity, to interrupt an immortal like that. He seems to sense how this one holds no power over our fates in the tournament. “Trust me, I’m well aware of my rights as a candidate in the Immortality Trials.”

The newcomer takes a step toward Yán’lù, and it is as though thunder rolls over our bridge. Spirit energy, stronger than any I have ever felt, reverberates from the immortal’s core, stirring a wind and bringing with it the scent of rain.

Yán’lù suddenly looks less smug.

“I care nothing about your status as a candidate of the Immortality Trials.” The immortal’s tone is cold enough to freeze oceans. “My duty is to the Temple of Dawn. My job is to protect it and its guests according to the values of the Kingdom of Sky and the Heavenly Order.”

“As I said, we were having a friendly chat, ” Yán’lù spits, though he backs away slightly. He turns to me, and his eyes glint with the promise of unfinished business. “Sweet dreams, my flower. ” He steps past the immortal, making for the banquet again.

The spirit energy in the air shifts, and the thick fog from Yán’lù’s talisman begins to dissipate as the guard approaches me. I tense. He’s seen me at my weakest; he could report this to the Eight Immortals, ending my chances of winning the trials.

The immortal’s shadow falls over me, mirroring its owner to extend a hand.

I look up, and the world around me seems to fade until I am back in the ocean. Between the silent and vicious currents, between dreams and reality, I’d seen a face so beautiful I’d thought him a god of the sea, expression gentle as he inclined his head to me.

I blink the memory away and I’m back on the bridge, the immortal guard bending toward me with his hand outstretched. It’s him—there’s no doubt about it—I’m gazing up at the man who saved me in the sea: chiseled face and sharp, angled jaw, long eyes framed by eyebrows like a sweep of ink. His hair is neatly cinched, and not even a single golden thread embroidered on his collar is out of place.

He gazes back at me, eyes clear and steady beneath his lashes. I search them for a flicker of recognition, but there is only a cool detachment to his expression, his face too still and too smooth to read. Almost as if it’s a practiced mask.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” he says, though his words are no longer bladed. “I promise you I haven’t a say in the trials. As I stated, my duty is to the Temple of Dawn. My job is to protect it and its guests.”

I hesitate, then at last place my hand in his. A tingle rushes through my fingers, along with the heady realization that I am touching an immortal for the first time in my life. His skin is surprisingly callused, in a way I hadn’t imagined immortals’ could be. Easily, he lifts me to my feet, placing one hand on my shoulder to steady me. Then he retracts his hands and places them behind his back.

“You…” I swallow. You appeared before me in the ocean today. I realize how mad I would sound.

He’s waiting for me to finish my sentence. The heartbeats stretch out between us.

“Yes?” he prompts, lifting an eyebrow.

I can’t look away from him. Skies, I need to get a grip.

I swallow. “Thank you,” I say, “for helping me.”

His eyes flick to my palms, swift and assessing. “Your hands are bleeding.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, lacing my fingers behind my back. Don’t let anyone see your weakness.

I try not to squirm under the long, appraising look he gives me. I hold my breath right until he inclines his head and turns. Tendrils of clouds curl over his shoulders as he begins walking away.

“Wait,” I blurt out. Why did I see you in the sea? Why did you save my life? Those are the questions I want to ask, but instead, I say, “Why did the Honorable Immortal Shī’yǎ vouch for me?”

He tips his head toward me over his shoulder. “You arrived at sundown. Therefore, you qualified.”

Trying to glean any information from him is like trying to reach through a wall of ice. So I ask, “How can I thank her?”

“You don’t. The rules are the rules. The Honorable Immortal Shī’yǎ was merely respecting them.” He begins walking again, and I hear his voice drift over the wind to me: “There is no partiality to the trials. Only those who win and those who die.”

—

The Candidates’ Courtyard is utterly silent when I return; everyone is at the banquet, enjoying themselves. I’m glad for this as I pace along the open-air veranda, rounding the pond to my chambers. When I reach my door, I find a small lacquered box sitting just outside the pool of warm lantern light. I check the box for any poison or enchantments before I pick it up and slide the lid open.

It’s a sewing kit. As I run a finger over the different needles, the hundreds of threads that glow beneath the lantern, Yán’lù’s threats seem to fall away. The world softens, and for a moment, I can imagine the girl who wished to sew oceans. The girl who made the handkerchief.

Caution bleeds into my delight. I don’t know who this gift is from, whether friend or foe, or whether it is simply the magic of the immortal realm that heard my wish and conjured it into reality.

I sense a shift in the shadows behind me. But when I look up, the courtyard is still empty. A gentle breeze ripples the waters of the pond, stirring the lotuses and dappling the moonlight. For a second, I think I see a silhouette beneath the great weeping willow across the water, sense a pair of eyes watching me through the darkness. I blink, and there is nothing but swaying branches.

I step through my doors and pull them shut behind me, making sure to latch them. I mark talismans on the doors and windows.

I place the sewing kit by my pillow. Then I grab Méi’zi’s dress and hold it tightly to me as I fall onto the bed.

Sleep takes me, and I do not dream.